


Falling Out of Here

by Sunlit-Wasteland (hot_cinnamon_man)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Abandonment Issues, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dragon Age Kink Meme, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Multi, Past Character Death, Past Relationship(s), commitment issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-01
Updated: 2015-10-01
Packaged: 2018-04-24 06:39:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4909150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hot_cinnamon_man/pseuds/Sunlit-Wasteland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One learns not to hope for much when growing up in a Circle. When Maxwell Trevelyan laid eyes on the Inquisition's commander, he had little idea of how his expectations would fall apart.</p><p>(And Maxwell couldn't stand to look at him for fear of burning his eyes.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Falling Out of Here

**Author's Note:**

> [Prompt](http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/15060.html?thread=58670804#t58670804)

The gales howled fiercely on the twelfth of Haring that year, on the day that would be forever marked as one of the worst days in Ostwick's recent history. The winds blew strong, washing away the scent of incense that usually perfumed even the dankest nooks and crannies of the slums. In it's wake bore only the wisping ghost of blood.

In the following weeks, months, years, it would be assumed to be the fruit of malevolent scheming nurtured by a sense of false security - a weed thriving unseen within a lovely garden. For years, sermons would shake the rafters of the chantry with their warnings of sloth and lack of foresight. In truth, it was fresh plans made sloppy with overwhelming fear and desperation kindled by whispers of annulment which drove that group of mages on that gray morning. They had managed well - phylactories smashed, vanishing from the Circle, winding through the alleys of the freezing city. It was only when they came to the wall that they'd been spotted.

Foundations, bloodlines, piety - these were the things the people of Ostwick prided themselves on. But nothing could surpass their reverence for the wall of Ostwick. Such love extended to their own homes and families - sturdy, protecting, guarded; each body a locked house, each home a fortress, each door bolted shut, and they only had to peek out their covered windows to see their inspiration. The wall of Ostwick was a symbol imprinted in the minds of all it embraced, miles upon miles of thick stone surrounding them, reaching into the sky, removing them from the rest of the world. Everlasting. Impenetrable. Come, Marchers, Qunari, Fereldans, come Raiders, Orlesians, Tevinters. Come with all your strongest warriors and cunning spies and Maker-forsaken magi, come with your strategists and generals, come with your swords and maces and staffs. You shall not enter.

And none within shall leave.

Fourteen Templars and twelve Mages dead, and seventeen civilians caught in the crossfire. In the following days, justice was demanded and carried out - thirty-four Mages with connections to the attempted escapees were made Tranquil, Templars who had looked the other way were executed, and anyone sympathetic to the wrong side was imprisoned. The Knight-Commander gripped his blade as he demanded bloody recompense, and the Revered Mother gazed down upon them with chants on her lips.

But it was on Haring twelfth, while the winds muffled terrified screams and the streets ran red, that Lady Trevelyan went into labor with her fourth and final child.

* * *

Maxwell Trevelyan liked to think himself a decent man deep down. He was not so ambitious as to add descriptions to himself such as "kind" or "true", but he wished that there was a reasonable limit to the darkness within him. He tried to be fair, to make the right choices even as he felt like he was stumbling blind, and he tried not to think about how much of his life was spent trying and not succeeding.

There were vices, of course. There were always vices. Banter full of suggestions. Painted lips pulling into wicked smiles. Hard lines and soft curves. Flowery perfume wafting up from a woman's slender neck. A man's strong grip and even stronger legs clenching his waist. Pants and moans and whispered words of affection that amounted none at all to what they should mean. The creaking of a bed, or pressing another hard against the wall, or hiding away from eyes in a dark closet, bodies entwined such in so tiny a space that neither could tell one's end to another's start. Floating, soaring, higher and higher until no breath was left within one's lungs, so high and far away from everything else; even the fall was barely felt for the ascension was only a lie. But it was a charming lie, nonetheless.

(He had dreamed for more, once upon a time; little bits and pieces of wishes glistening gold which he tucked away into his heart. But his heart had been eviscerated from his chest long ago, and he was dogged, not a fool.)

Which was why later he would be at an utter loss as to how he'd ever thought bedding Cullen Rutherford was a good idea, for nothing about the man was a lie.

* * *

"Checkmate."

"Again?" Maxwell said incredulously. "I'm starting to think my first win was only beginner's luck."

Cullen wore a playful smile that took years off his face, his expression endearingly victorious but not quite smug. "We could always play again," he said, and the question in it was obvious.

"So you can thrash me yet again?" he said as he started to rearrange the pieces. "I suppose I should be proud of our commander's strategy prowess. Even if he is about to lose his chess reputation."

Cullen seemed taken aback a moment before his face broke into another smile. "Is that a threat, Lord Inquisitor?"

He smirked. "It's a promise."

The notes of Cullen's laugh mingled sweetly in the crisp air as he agreed to one more game. Maxwell probably should have been paying more attention to the game, but even as he leaned forward as though intent on it, moving pieces as though he had a strategy at all, his eyes kept glancing up at his opponent's face. Truthfully, he was getting beaten quite thoroughly for Cullen was no dullard, and as Maxwell was finding out, was fiercely - attractively - competitive.

"You're very good at this," he noted as Cullen took yet another piece.

"I used to play against my sister," Cullen said. "She used to beat me all the time. My brother and I kept practicing together to try and beat her. The look on her face when I finally won..."

Maxwell could imagine it well, a much younger and smaller version of the Commander, a gleeful smile on his face, and his lips curved at the thought. "You have siblings?"

"Two sisters and a brother." Maxwell could hear the fondness clear as day. "What about you?"

"A sister and two brothers."

Cullen gave him an amused look. "Knowing you, that must have been quite the handful for your parents."

And Maxwell could still see it, see the dark too-long halls lined with frowning portraits. Rooms just a bit too cold, and days and nights so silent he wanted to scream, except that the silence was too strong, too foreboding, and the possible consequences for disturbing it frightened him. "Luckily for them, my eldest brother is far too serious for his own good and I was sent to the Circle at an early age."

"I see." He pauses. "Being nobility - certainly you must been allowed to visit?"

The eldest. Tall, proud, unsure. A girl, standing behind him as though timid to come any closer. And a boy, a few shades older than himself, running down the steps and rushing towards him, yelling _Max_ before flinging his arms tight around him- "On occasion." Something in either his tone or face must have given him away, and he felt a twinge of guilt as he watched Cullen pull back as though he was retreating into himself.

"Ah. I'm...sorry. I should have thought-"

"It's nothing," Maxwell interrupted, his fingers imperceptibly squeezing the piece in his hand. Smiled. "I don't regret where I've ended up."

"No, I suppose you don't. Still, I..." he caught himself. Sheepish. "I'm sorry. I'm prying, aren't I?"

"Not at all. Though I assure you, any curiosity you ever had about my family would be gone after two hours of my great-Aunt Lucille interrogating you on your bloodline." The smile Cullen gave him was small and unsure, and so he continued. "As I said, I'm pleased with current events. Besides, you know, the Breach and an ancient darkspawn trying to become a god and all that. But other than _that_..."

Relief came when he saw Cullen's tense shoulders relax, and he leaned forward, lips twitching up. "And it certainly doesn't hurt that you make for fetching company, Commander."

Cullen was Fereldan through and through. Over ten years in the Free Marches had done nothing to curb his accent; he'd seen firsthand that like most his countrymen, he had a poor tolerance for foreign wines and foods. And despite how much time he spent outside, his pale skin didn't tan a bit. Even in the bright sunshine, there was almost an unhealthy pallor to it. Despite some concern, that was one of Maxwell's favorite things about the other man - honest to a fault, an open book, red blossoming in his cheeks and down his neck from exertion, anger, embarrassment, and-

And there it was, the pink blooming in pale cheeks and starting to spread even as the Commander chuckled. A moment passed - Cullen's gaze fell before catching him again. "I think you've been spending too much time with Dorian," he said hastily, color spreading down, perhaps realizing that he remained quiet a bit too long.

Maxwell raised his eyebrows. "Is that a complaint or a compliment?"

The color in his cheeks darkened as he let out a breathy laugh. "I believe it's my turn."

"That it is," Maxwell agreed, leaning back in his seat, content to watch Cullen make his move.

As cool as the day was, it was lovely still. He could hear the chirping of a bird, catch voices and the clinking of armor. The sun shone high and bright, and its rays reached down to them, gleaming in Cullen's golden hair. Perhaps that had been the first time that a seed of doubt wriggled in his mind, planted by the image of his newest interest. Bright and lovely and strong.

The commander was no helpless maiden. All men had vices, even the most pious. Maxwell had spent enough time around both soldiers and Templars to know that they often sought release without a catch or promise to be made. How long had it been, he wondered, since Cullen sought his own? He was a sharp man - they wouldn't be here at all if they weren't after the same thing.

He saw Cullen glance up again, opened his mouth - closed it as he looked down. And again. Sighed, as he moved his piece. "I believe this is the longest we've gone without discussing the Inquisition. It's...a nice change of pace. I can't say I don't enjoy it."

Yes, Maxwell liked to think he was a decent man. But he wasn't so optimistic in his own virtue as to not recognize his own ruthlessness. "Then perhaps we should spend more time together?"

"I'd like that," Cullen said, and Maxwell tried not to show his surprise at the quickness of the answer.

"As would I."

Something in Cullen's face softens, his warm brown eyes far away. "You said that," he murmured, like a man who can't believe things too-good are being given to him.

Maxwell reached forward to move his chess piece. "Checkmate," he said, and something twisted painfully in his chest.

* * *

His older brother had mentioned more than once that Maxwell liked to collect people. As dearly as he loved Dominic, the youngest Trevelyan had always found the comparison cringe-worthy, as though he were a cold and greedy man who picked whichever shone brightest and threw away everything else without a thought as to its true value.

"It's not an insult," he would say. "It's a talent to be able to draw others near with so little effort. You should be proud of it. Well," and then he'd grin, "so long as you don't gather round _nefarious_ reprobates. What would good old Auntie Lucille think?" His cornflower blue eyes twinkled.

"I suppose that includes my current company. Perhaps I should trying losing you?" he'd answer with a smirk, and he'd already be half-heartedly ducking away as Dominic laughed and reached over to ruffle his hair.

"Not a chance, little brother. Not a chance."

 


End file.
